


We Can't Go to Hell (When We're Already There)

by astrologia



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Absolutely Fucken Yandere! Alastor, Alastor can be a flirty shit when he wants to, Demon/Human Relationships, F/F, F/M, Genre Savvy Reader, He already is kinda a shit, Headcanon-heavy, Implied Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inter-species relationships gone horribly wrong/right, M/M, Not Really Slow Burn Slow Burn, Not-So-Domestic Life, O SHIT WAS THAT A PUN, Oneshot, Other, Pining, Reader is desensitized to weird shit, Reader would like the supernatural shit to cease and desist please, Reader's town is Gravity Falls meets Welcome to Nightvale, Slightly Yandere!Alastor, We all love our Deer Man, but anyways, no wait, references to other media, tfw your life partner is a radio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrologia/pseuds/astrologia
Summary: Your town is, as established, a mishmash of weirdness.The last time a friend came over, they were horrified at how casually everyone regarded the news of a kid having been kidnapped and tortured for weeks on end at the street corner house. You've learned that Town normal isn't normal in polite society for you.Then one day, your friendly neighborhood fortune teller gives you an old, antique radio. The ' Vintage 1933 K-64 Cathedral BC Radio' as she had fondly stated.Now, if only that radio would stop starting up at three in the morning and calling you 'Sweetheart'...





	1. the trojan horse (and the hapless reciever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your town is, as established, a mishmash of weirdness. 
> 
> The last time a friend came over, they were horrified at how casually everyone regarded the news of a kid having been kidnapped and tortured for weeks on end at the street corner house. You've learned that Town normal isn't normal in polite society for you. 
> 
> Then one day, your friendly neighborhood fortune teller gives you an old, antique radio. The ' Vintage 1933 K-64 Cathedral BC Radio' as she had fondly stated.
> 
> Now, if only that radio would stop starting up at three in the morning and calling you 'Sweetheart'...

You blinked up blearily at the cracked ceiling as the sound of a call woke you. More like, the sound of voices waking you from sleep procrastination. The shrill voice of Edogawa Conan cut through your sleepy stupor as you sat up in bed. The laptop was still charging, though you weren't even sure if it was full or not. 

The recent impending graduation made you feel strange. It was like, crossing the threshold to real adulthood, with stress, bills, and the scary, scary possibility of failure with heavy cost. The saddest part was that most of your classmates were in precarious positions, as one ass of a professor decided it would be a great idea to fail students she didn't like. Meaning, she passed those who pleased her aesthetic senses or were sycophantic people (like you, you noted wryly with a bitter taste) that seemed to be able to permanently go into people's good graces. 

It was strange, actually, your inclination to be two-faced and yet completely sincere in both opinions you had shed for each. Despite having the knowledge of your inner evils, law-abiding citizen seemed to gravitate to your deeds more easily. Either it was the fear of the law or simple conditioning, you couldn't tell yourself. Getting up groggily from the soft, sun-warmed quilts on your bed, you pad over to your laptop, pull off the charger, and shut it down. 

Stretching languidly in the pool of orange sunset light, you looked up to the darkening skies outside your window. Checking the clock and seeing that it was nearly five, you decided to get started on dinner. 

Putting on your ridiculous pink fluff slippers (which was a gag gift turned into a real household use), you stepped out of your room and through the dusky halls of your empty house. The family portraits on the wall were dusty, and you made no move to wipe the dust. Ashes to ashes. They were best unremembered. And besides, you were averse to pain, as much as that had been present in the past years of your life. They all just took and never gave. At the very least, they had the decency to leave you a fairly large sum of money to provide for yourself and university for a few decades. 

( _You refuse to remember. "Special eyes", my ass. All they ever brought were calls of 'weirdo' and 'creep' as a child. How much more when you grew up? 'Schizophrenic fuck' was the least of the worst insults you encountered. It made you want to cry and punch someone._ )

Turning on each light as you passed (and ignoring the flickers at the corners of your eyes), you turned on the TV, and set it to full blast. The sound of a couple arguing over who was the real father as the reality show ensued filled the house as you set off to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, you were blessed with the sight of a full house.

Thanks, Mrs. Thompson, you da real MVP. You smiled as you took out some slices of bacon, the pepper and salt shaker, and leftover rice from last night. As an afterthought, you grabbed two eggs. Setting them down on the kitchen island, you set to work finding that damn frying pan (it was in the back of the cupboard), and some oil. Setting the fire to warm the oil for a few minutes and getting some garlic cloves, you proceeded to listen absentmindedly to the argument in the television, and man, that woman sure was ru- _ouch fuck shiit--_

Blood seeped through your cut skin as you hurriedly washed it off with a hiss. Setting down the knife, you rushed to the medicine cabinet and man, you totally forgot to buy bandages and povidone-iodine, and  _ack, it's bleeding again--_

The doorbell rang, interrupting your thoughts. _"YES?!"_ Your voice cracked in the middle, and you winced. 

Mrs. Thompson's chirpy voice answered your question. She was what normal neighborhoods would classify as the batty old granny who often told fortunes (which were incredibly, terribly accurate), and was superstitious to a fault. She had lost her husband in the clips, a couple of fields a few acres large, by getting shot seven years ago. Mrs. Thompson was still, thankfully, the nice lady who hid you inside her house when your parents came looking with too-wide smiles and narrowed eyes. She also made a mean chocolate moist cake and vanilla shake combo. 

"Good Evening dear, and--oh my, what did you do to your finger?" Mrs. Thompson tutted as she turned it this way and that. You noticed she was carrying a box marked with FRAGILE the size of two or four books stacked together. 

"It's okay, Mrs. Thompson," you soothed the elderly lady as you ushered her inside. "I'm making dinner. Garlic fried rice with bacon and eggs. Would you like to have some?" 

"Oh, yes please!" she chirped, clapping her hands. "I do so love bacon and eggs! And oh, I do have a present for you dear!"

Blinking, you waved two hands. "Oh, you really shouldn't have--"

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Thompson replied as she tugged you down on the sofa to sit opposite to her. "And I brought just the loveliest thing-- _this!"_

She patted the box proudly, and you couldn't help but smile. "What's in the box, then?" 

Mrs. Thompson winked and hefted the box between both of you, and slowly lifted the lid. Inside, lying against fragments of cloth and worn cotton, was a shiny, old-fashioned radio. Despite the yellowing of some parts, you marveled at the sleek, shining wood and the pristine condition it seemed to be in. "Oh," you breathed. "It's beautiful." 

And somehow, in the back of your head, a purr like the buzzing of static (and it was your **_greatest_ **fuck up to ignore that warning sign) started up. Shaking your head, you gently touched the wood that encased the gears and ends inside, completely forgetting the cut on your finger. "What's this? I-I know it's an old radio but--"

"It's a 1933 K-64 Cathedral BC Radio." Mrs. Thompson hummed as she gave you the box. "It's a real beaut, isn't it? Michael's brother owned this." She chirped. "It's been passed around in their family for decades, and it, well, used to belong to a serial killer." 

The air turned a bit cold and the TV hum seemed to dull a bit. "Um, what?"

"Oh, someone from Orleans, most probably, no need to worry your pretty little head over it!." Mrs. Thompson continued. "And don't worry, I closed the Path. I think." 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to either smile or laugh in hysterical fear-joy-oh-shit-what-the-fucken-hell as you stared at the radio given to you. Looking up at Mrs. Thompson's round, smiling face, you mustered a weak smile. "D-Do you have holy water or purified salt, at least, Mrs. Thompson?"

The buzzing static at the back of your head increased into what sounded like amused, radio-host laughter. You never tried punching a voice before, but man did you want to try that now.

* * *

 

 Turns out, Mrs. Thompson didn't have any holy water on her, but she had purified salt straight from a friend of hers who went to Tibet. Himalayan rock salt was good for both cooking and purification, and it honestly made you a bit sour that you had to use perfectly good cooking material as anti-supernatural barrier shenanigans, but hey, sacrifices must be made. 

(And more importantly, you did not want a repeat of The Incident.)

Lastly, you lugged around the (surprisingly heavy) radio on a silver tray inside a salt circle  _everywhere_ because no shit you would be letting anything that could be possibly haunted out of your sight, no sir. No fucken way,  ** _sir._**

(Ignoring, again, the fact that the radio's static seemed to become more agitated as you took off clothes to enter the tub. Taking pity on whatever spirit in there, you decided to just, cover it with sheer cloth. And make the universal ' _I've got my eyes on you'_ sign as you slipped into the bathtub, and reached for a couple of rubber duckies.)  

Changing into pajama shorts and a matching shirt, you yawned and set the radio on the table with your laptop, doubling the salt circle around it, and moving the laptop (and your notes) away from it. Just in case. And also a circle around your bed (and man, you'd really pay for a sack of purified salt right now), just for good measure.

Yawning, you narrowed your eyes and pointed a finger at the antique radio sitting innocuously on the table a few ways away from your bed. "Please don't do anything stupid. Good Night."  

You settled into the covers. Minutes passed. Your sleepiness took over, and soon you were snoring away, dreaming of an endless buffet of food. 

In the dark, the old radio crackled. A laugh emerged, dark yet utterly charming. 

" _Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."_ a crackle. _"Good Night...for **now** at least." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK Myself. Hanging Endings? Hanging Endings.
> 
> K-64 Cathedral Radio is [this.](https://radioattic.com/item.htm?radio=0961136)
> 
> I do not condone the insulting of people with special needs. Please don't do that, or even use mental illnesses as insults. It's totally not cool.
> 
> The people and the town where the Reader lives is a mishmash of Gravity Falls, Welcome to Nightvale, and [this](https://starsetter-girl.tumblr.com/post/183081400582/i-went-to-the-dentist-today-and-my-dentist-honest)


	2. hey, you demon f*ck!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The radio crackles. The radio sings. The radio watches as you change your clothes, and you honestly want nothing more but Vatican-grade holy water, but you're petty, and spite is a great motivation.

You slowly wake up to a jazzy woman's voice and a piano playing and you think, 'Huh. This is a good alarm.' and snuggle deeper into your flower-patch quilt before bolting, eyes wide open and awake, realizing that **_'HOLY SHIT I HAVE NO ALARM CLOCK WHAT_** ' and turning to the radio which you were s ** _uper extremely fucken sure was shut and not plugged into any electric socket god help your sanity or ELSE--_**

... Yep. It's playing. Full blast, like a party in the 1930's. You sniffle in distaste-disappointment-sleepy ire, and look at the offending radio, which seemed to flicker a deep, dark red in the night. You see it's 3AM, as you reach over and look at your phone. You **_hate_ **this. "I thought I told you I didn't want anything stupid done."

You hoped to whatever god out there that the salt circles held up, because you had a bad habit of not being able to hold your stupid mouth when you first wake up. Exhibit A; present moment. You had never wanted to throttle your own neck as of now.

The radio crackled. The music stopped. The red glow intensified, and you clenched sweaty hands on the quilt, which hid a bagful of Himalayan Rock Salt. Now come 'n get some, you--

_"WHY, GOOD MORNING SWEETHEART!"_

You proceeded to choke in the back of your throat at the over-the-top greeting. Your mouth opened and closed. "I- ah, _what_."

 _"Why such the flabbergasted face, darling? I think you already knew I was here, correct?"_ The cheerful voice crackled from the eerie radio. The night was still deep and dark, giving the radio an ominous quality as it pulsed a deep blood red in the shadows. _"Now, now, turn that frown up-side-down!"_

You sighed.

And promptly burrowed back into your quilt to sleep, muttering I _'m too tired for this shit_. In the future, you would wonder if you fell asleep that quick that fast through sheer willpower or because you were too tired, and they would all laugh, saying that was silly. You were never silly, which made their sense of humor weird, and that was--

 

* * *

 

_It was Feb **r** uary 4th, and **i** t was a **s** p **e** cial day. Everything was in black **and** white, and **s** plas **h** es of grays. You seemed to be wr **i** ting somethi **n** g, th **e** letters and neat, looping penmanship that was minenotmine and the clothes a bit on the low-en **d** side, but still dec **e** ntly good enough for work. Dre **a** m-you paused, and looked up at someone who stepped out of the office. It was unclea **r** , but he was in color. A white suit, and he said something. You laughed, your dream-heart going tip-tap-tap, faster, and the front doors opened and--_

 

* * *

 

You woke, eyelids slowing and fluttering like little butterfly wings and yawned, curling up and popping off the covers. In the depths of your sleep, a thought stirred, and you ignored it in favor of marveling how nice the weather seemed today. In retrospect, it was disagreeable of you to judge tomorrow's weather based on--

_Wait. Just. A. Minute._

You kept silent, stilling your breath, and hoping to whatever extra-dimensional divine existence out there that it was your bad hearing playing tricks on you. Spinning around from the window beside your bed, you let out a soft expletive as you saw the familiar radio glowing the same red as it had the dawn before, and this time, it crackled quite patiently (almost amusingly, your brain muttered) as it sat inside a circle of salt.

You cautiously toed around the radio on the table, and checked if it was--nope, it was unplugged. You narrowed your eyes and attempted to channel all your malice at the radio. "Aight, is this just a bad case of me getting the heebie-jeebies or--"

_"I assure you I'm not a hallucination either."_

The sardonic radio-crackle voice cut through your speech, causing you to bite your tongue and let out a muffled screech of pain. With tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, you vaguely registered the whatever was inside the radio laughing at you with derision in its tone. Turning your head with a burning glare, you viciously clawed at a pillow and chucked it at the radio with extreme prejudice.

" _FUCK OFF!_ " You shrieked though your painful tongue, which came out sounding more like _hackowf_!

Then, the pillow paused and ricocheted back, hitting the wall behind your head with a loud thump.

You were out of the room, a loud and grating laugh echoing in your ears, faster than you could say " _Bambi_ ".

You sprinted out of your front door, tripping over your own feet as you jumped off your porch, through the overgrown, dead-leafed lawn, and over the white fence that separated your lot from Mrs. Thompson's. With a strength you didn't know you had, you pushed through her large oak double doors, and ran into her kitchen screaming, where she smiled and handed you a freshly baked cookie.

Yep, probably just another day here, you whimper as you sit down on a kitchen stool and nibble on the cookie. You hated that fucking radio.

With a passion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alastor is canonically said to be ever-smiling bc he believes that smiling despite any situation proves that ur powerful. Good for him. On a less related note, does anyone know how to separate chapter bc I legit got an adrenaline rush from sheer annoyance tryna figure out note separation per chapter. 
> 
> Edit: figgred it out @ 12 am thanks
> 
> Also, made YT Playlists for this:
> 
> [Follow Your Heart (Where Did It Learn to Scurry Like That?) SIDE A](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8c8tPJ740xA&list=PLQ12yt9Edbj-r_Cv0rlkO_7_UNoBBS0b0) is Alastor's.  
> [ When The Sink Drains (The Door Opens) SIDE B](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dmbG8oDVhc&list=PLQ12yt9Edbj9TaDJo9BL7y3srabOj9jud) is for the reader.
> 
> my music taste is shit, forgive me, lmao.


	3. bury me shallow (i'll be back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can't beat 'em, then try harder to beat' em. Enlist the help of your local elderly neighbour with mystic powers to beat them. Then show them who's boss by forcing them to watch the most mind-numbing telenovela/soap opera they have on afternoon TV.

"I see," Mrs. Thompson nods, probably trying to be sympathetic as she pats your head with her wrinkled hands, and gives you the cute, yellow Jake the Dog mug that you had in here, filled with cold milk. "Well, I'm sure he can't be that bad, sweetie."

Your mouth drops open, and you feel cookie crumbs fall out. "Mrs. Thompson, I don't think so. At all. Any being who disturbs a sleeping person unless for Really Dire Circumstances is a chaotic evil dickwad, and the radio did it for shits and giggles."

You stuff another cookie into your mouth, and inwardly appreciate the soft crumbliness it possessed. Yum.

"Hm. Maybe you just got off the wrong foot?"

You send up a pleading glance at Mrs. Thompson. "It probably wants to kill me. In my sleep. Like the last incident."

The room grew silent and Mrs. Thompson gently took your hands in her aged ones. "Honey, if there's one thing I won't let repeat, it's what happened to you." She replies, voice soft and kind, yet unyielding and steely. "Your parents were the real monsters there. Not you. Not the other one, either."

"...It won't bring back time though." You say, eyes focused on cookie chips. "I've lost that. I don't know about that anymore, either."

"It's okay, really. You'll be fine." the elderly lady puts away a few cookies in a paper bag for you to enjoy. " I know you will. You're a special child with a special role."

Mrs. Thompson gave the best hugs. You had no statistics for that, but it may have been because she was the first person to ever hug you since childhood with no other agenda. It was nice.

"... Mrs. Thompson?"

" Yes, dear?"

"Can I have cookies and himalayan salt to go?" 

"Of course."

 

* * *

 

Walking towards your home with  _Pop/Star_ on repeat in your head (because you dashed out of your house in nothing but pajamas and your phone), you took a deep breath and gave the two brown paper bags a soft shake. Opening your door as wide as it would go and shoving numerous umbrellas underneath your door as stoppers. Of course, nobody batted an eyelash because this town was  _that_ weird. 

Walking down the hall, you took great care not to look at shadows in the corners, and reflections in mirrors. More importantly, you turned on the lights in each and every room you passed, even if it was hella bright and the middle of the day. 

Stomping up the stairs and inwardly wincing at the creaks, you tapped up the music app on your phone and played  _Megitsune_ by Babymetal. Man, that band was the best. Also, you loved the microphone-katana scene; pure genius. 

To be completely honest? You were feeling the heebie jeebies again. Your legs were kinda shaking again. It was like that day again. It was like when mom led you into the woods, and--

 _Breathe._ You focused on your bedroom door.  _Breathe._ You didn't dare to close your eyes. You didn't dare to look back, or move forward, but--

" _So,_ " the same voice spoke, all dark tones and Al Pacino vibes from beyond the door. " _You've come back; that was awful rude of you to leave me like that, darlin'."_

The radio crackles beyond the door. You take a deep breath, and nudge the ajar door with your sock-clad foot open. It does, and you stare at the radio sitting innocently in a pool of sunlight cast by your window. So innocuous. You square your jaw and stride inside, not bothering to close the door. Of course, you'd be stupid if you sat with your back to said door, which led to the inner recesses of your house. 

Which may or may not have been filled with whatever eldritch horrors that spewed from this radio when you were over at Mrs. Thompson's. 

So you opened your window as wide as it would go, and tied up your curtains, letting warm sunlight flood the room. You were kinda proud that you did all these without letting go of the two paper bags you held. Swiveling around and facing the radio eye-to-wooden case, you opened the paper bag of cookies and tore it, making a makeshift plate because you were totally not terrified of what the hell would happen should you leave this alone while you go get a nice cuppa. 

" _No tea or coffee, sweetheart?"_

Biting back a rude comment, you sighed. "No. None. For now, maybe." you paused. "Honestly, I'd offer you a cookie because you're missing out on these babies." You continued as you motioned to the cookies before you.

The radio goes silent, and bursts into loud, obnoxious laughter. Condescending, loud, obnoxious laughter, really, but it's an improvement. Kinda. 

Silence follows after the outburst, and you focus on the radio. It's...not looking so old, actually. There are some small scratches around the wood after closer examination. It's--

_You sit, and in there you see them e **n** ter. The speech is garbled, but the pace is cheerful. Frantic, even, and y **o** u wait patiently because maybe (not maybe) they **w** ould take notice and include you in the conver **s** ation, but t **h** at's okay because, g **o** ds, the male machismo seemed to get more inflated in this Depression. Just because they couldn't stomach **w** omen work **i** ng to make meets e **n** d. You want to say that, but no, you **g** otta keep that Patented Secretary Airhead Smile on your face or else--_

_The other takes note of you strides forward and--_

You feel the tap of something against your hand and you are violently jolted back into your body. It's cold. Cold. And you notice your hands are pale. You don't like this at all. Felt too much like that one time with mom and dad. 

" _Problem, pumpkin?"_ The voice from the radio asks cheerfully, and you choke when you realize there are only four cookies out of the sixteen left.  _"I must admit, these are superb."_

 _"_ Y-Yo-" You grit your teeth. "Did you just pull an OBE thing just to  _take_ those cookies?!" 

" _don't know what you're talking about."_

You know those moments where temper gets ahead of you, and the body acts before you think? Yeah. Shit happened, your future self would say as you shuffled your feet. 

You grabbed the radio with bare hands, and slammed it face-up on the table, eyes burning in the shadows cast by your back against the sunny window. You did not take notice of how gooseflesh formed along your arms, arcing in streaks of white light. You did not take notice of the purr of voices around you, a legion screaming  _mineminemine._

" _I don't know what the fuck you are,"_ And oh, had you paid attention, your voice would have sounded something strange, outlandish. The sound of echoes along a dark cave.  _"But fuck off. I didn't fight for years to get my peace dragged down the drain by this shit you pull. This is **MY** domain,  **and my RULES."**_

_**"And it's easy: I respect you, and you respect M̳̠̟͈̜͉̜͠E̳͕."** _

Anger ebbed away like waves in a tide, and your hold lightened as you relaxed. You stared down at the radio, unmoving, and inwardly screaming  _OH SHIT WHAT THE fucK_ as you slowly, painfully retracted from the silent radio. 

" _WHAT A PERFORMANCE!_ "

And  _fuck_ if that didn't take years off your lifespan, as the laughing and clapping sounded from the radio. You didn't know whether to scream, cry, or say 'thank you'. 

" _I believe I have taken an interest in you, dear."_ and oh, you can feel a shit-eating grin spread along a pale, pale bloodless face.  _"It's **so unusual** to see a Bride these days." _

You freeze. No how what no escape have to shit maybe he they was no you were **not not not going back there no no not** \-- 

" _Worry not!"_ the voice chirped. " _I hold no interest in creating a child with you as others would! There are other more efficient ways to call us up and bind us rather than use a vessel."_ a laugh follows. " _So, I believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot. Alastor, at your service! Pleasure to meet you, darlin'!"_

A beat of silence, and you close your mouth so fast your teeth click. You say your name and the v-- _Alastor,_ repeats it, and he goes silent, before laughing. 

" _We should do something else for the day, eh?"_

An absurdly wide smile stretches across your face. "Say, what do you think about telenovelas and soap operas in the afternoon?"  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Himalayan Salt apparently has good psychic protection qualities, and is good for cleansing dark energy. OFC, I don't practice spellcraft nor am I familiar with this; it's mostly Google-senpai and hearsay. 
> 
> Machismo is the belief in male supremacy and the relegation of a woman in a secondary or domestic role. Sometimes refers to marital infidelity on the part of the husband. 
> 
> And man, if spanish telenovelas ain't the most amazing thing. Check out a synopsis of Rubi on Youtube. It's a wiiiild ride.


	4. INTERLUDE : hey demons, it's me (ya boi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old Things have myriad of thoughts, often ranging from mundane to inconceivable. The stars speak. The moon howls. And the paths divide.

You slurped your choco shake as you watched a crime documentary with the Radio on the couch. Or Alastor's Radio. The thing had made sure to assert that yes, he was the owner of the radio you possessed as of current times, and yes, he was, as of now, not inclined to harm you. 

That didn't stop you from carrying around a tiny glass bottle filled to the brim with blessed salt though. You could hear the mocking pout he had (and for sakes' you had no idea how you did that) as you raised a brow and shook the bottle at the radio. 

" _Darling, can you stop shaking that glorified iodine bottle at me? It's starting to get old."_

 "It's my protection method." You chirp, ignoring the churning unease in your gut. "And besides, the glass doubles as something I can use to stab your eyeballs out if you start to act up."

 _"But I don't **have**_ _eyeballs."_

 "Irrelevant." You chirp as you stuff it back into your pocket, feeling the small dents press comfortingly into your thigh. "I'd prefer not having to destroy such a pretty radio."

" _Why, thank you, I'm quite flattered."_

You squinted. "I meant the radio, not you." and you feel the scrape of a nail against your neck, unconsciously reaching up and covering your nape.

Alastor laughs, and it chills you to the bone. " _Darling, darling: I am the radio_." 

You want to shake off the sudden chill and the closing shadows. You do just that and turn up the volume of the TV.

" _Personally, Ellen should have just razed the kingdom to the ground."_ Alastor's voice is smug and purring like particularly happy cat.  _"It would have made the most cathartic decision."_

"And, the season would have ended in three episodes." You quip, setting down your glass of chocolatey goodness. "Revenge is a dish best served chilled, and everyone hates Jeannette enough to wait."

" _Bah, humbug. She's the Impostor Princess! Why is no one questioning why the prince fell in love at first sight?! That doesn't exist!"_

 _"_ It's a plot thing, Alastor. Get over that." You roll your eyes and take the old radio, putting it face-to-wooden face with you. "And are you enjoying this? I chose this activity to make sure you weren't enjoying this." 

" _Soap Operas are quite frustrating, I'll gladly admit."_ Alastor replies briskly. " _It makes you want to just step up to them, stab them with a fork, and drag their innards out! At times, the choices they make are quite hilariously frustrating, they're charming!"_

"...Okay, you're enjoying this." You sigh, defeated. "Actually, can you do that? Walk up to those people in the TV and just--"

" _Oh, don't get me wrong, darling,"_ Alastor croons from the radio.  _" I **hate** the television set. It's the people in the picture shows that amuse me. TV killed the Radio Stars, after all."_

You raise an eyebrow at the solemn vehemence in his voice, deviating from the usual cheeriness of a radio announcer. "That's...not exactly wrong, but that's kinda not right either?"

The radio crackled with static. You chose to shut the fuck up and focus on the TV screen as the hairs on the back of your neck and arms rose. Behind you, something shattered. Probably a glass vase. You see shadows from the corner of your eyes and you dare not turn.

"Hey, hey you know what?" You say, mentally cheering when your voice does not waver. "Let's go out to the renaissance fair."

The crackling stops. Malevolence still lingers in the air but it is less potent, less choking. " _Pardon?"_

"I said," you reply louder, dispelling the fear in your veins. "We should go to the renaissance fair. It's probably offensive for vampires considering the stereotypical arrangements, but the costumes are good. Also, too much TV is bad for your--well,  _my_ eyes so--"

 _"Very well! to the renaissance fair it is!"_ Alastor interrupts, startling you into biting the tip of your tongue. The fear is gone, replaced my annoyance.  _"I must say, that is a sterling idea!  Let us be off! and carry me on a pram or something less disgraceful, if you please!"_

You slowly let out a breath you did not know you were holding. "You broke the vase. It's the wicker basket for you, Good Sir."

 

===

 

The fair was rowdier than last years, with screaming children and more mothers and grandmothers minding them. Red-faced patrons of the local ' _Since 1864'_ brewery were already red-faced and laughing around a barrel, mugs of beer in hand. At least there were fewer costume wearers than last year, or else wardrobe disasters may occur again. 

The sight of screaming pigs and panic as everyone stumbled around their mandatory costumes from last year was funny, but it was a health hazard. Or a safety hazard, because everyone kept tripping and falling everywhere, but you digress. 

" _I quite like this fair!"_ And you wonder why people aren't turning heads at the loud proclamation of the radio at your baske-- _oh right, this town was weird._ " _Not as entertaining as the cult from the dog park we encountered earlier, but it's charming as well!"_

"They're not a cult, they're teenage edgelord hooligans." You reply, remembering the cringe as the teens compared how  _miserable_ and  _lonely_ their  _poor mortal existences_ were. "Real cults are less  _'look at me I'm a cult member!'_ and more of the  _'I look normal and I function as a normal human being but my quirks are barely there'_ Kind of thing."

" _Oh my, speaking from personal experience?"_ Ah, shit. That smug,  _smug_ voice. Smarmy bastard. 

"Maybe, yes, no." You reply, stopping over at a stall selling peach preserves. You buy one jar and put it in the basket beside Alastor. "Besides, that's none of your business, right?"

" _Maybe, yes, no._ "

"Fucker."

Loud, condescending laughter followed your outburst and you sighed. Maybe it was time to-

"Care for some fortune-telling, luvvy?"

You turn and see a curly-haired woman in her twenties wearing a pink, flowery muumuu and a shawl. A stack of cards and a crystal ball sat on a table before her. Seeing she had caught your attention, she grinned. "Hello, love. Fortunes?"

...The radio was silent. Normally he'd have a sharp quip on the fakery of things like that, but Alastor was eerily silent. 

"...Sure?" You uncertainly walked over to the table, drawing the basket with Alastor and your peach preserves jar closer. "Hi, so..."

"It's free, on the house." she winked. 

You blinked. "Oh." you scuffed your feet awkwardly.

The woman laughed and drew the curtains closed around her stall, which was a little ways into a tiny grove of trees. "Cards?"

She flicked through her deck and shuffled them. Her brown eyes looked up at you. "Pick three."

You stopped and picked two. The third--

_There. NotYoursYour Voice echoed in your head. A deer head smiled._

A shock ran through your veins, much like how a shudder rips through someone once they touch the cold. The fortune-teller deftly arranged the leftover cards into a stack, and laid the three cards you chose face down. 

"Past." she pointed to the leftmost card. "Present." The center.  ** _"Future."_** The right. 

There it was again, the overlapping of voices around you. Alastor's voice was silent, the basket unnecessarily heavier than before. The light you blocked caused shadows to dance upon the teller's face, and her eyes were golden in the dark. Her smile sly. "Open the past."

 _~~An echo of a memory, an~~ _ _~~obsidian knife poised above you. Open the doors to the abyss and gaze, O Yesod.~~_

"Hermit, reversed." Her voice echoed like a cave. "You were a lonely child perhaps. Maybe raised to be alone, isolated. Perhaps for one purpose? Maybe that purpose failed."

You open the second gate, and--

_~~It is in a forest, sirens blare, parents are taken, screaming, your failure. Close the Window, O Mythrias.~~ _

"Star, reversed." you cannot look away from the cards, and up at her because something has changed. Alastor's radio crackles with electric reds and blacks, and yet she does not mind. Alastor's grudging pride is telling you that you look up, you die. 

"Lack of faith." she chirps. "You have no faith in everything. You believe everything will ultimately betray you at one point. You disconnect yourself from everything to prevent that."

"Final card." You murmur. "Should I o̪̪̲̜p̣e̖̮̲̝͈̳̙n̮̩̲̱͕̺̥ ̯͈͇̟̩̳t͈̝͕̟̼h͍̤̗̹e͕̰̜̫̝̥̼ ̮̦̫̣̬͕ga̺͍͈͚̗̣ͅt̙͍e̻̮̤?̼͉͕͔" you reply, hand poised over the card. A hand instead cards through your hair, sorrow and kindness far too inhuman filling the air. 

"Won'̵t ̶yo͠u͘ come҉ ҉h̴ome ̷w̴i͝t͠h ͜us?"̸ she says, voice old and tired, like sleeping jewels near the core of the earth. "Y͜o͏u ͏won'̷t ͠eve͘r͝ ͘be̴ t̕ru̕ly ̴h̢ap̵p̛y͡ ͏he͘r͡e. ̨Not͢ fo҉r͡ ̴a long͘ ti͜me.̛ B̵u̡t̷ w҉ith ͠us̷ ͜you͜ wil̡l̴ be."

 _Ah, shitshitshitshit._ Your vision doubles and and and--

"No, not yet." You gurgle, from somewhere in the vast darkness. The weight of Alastor's Radio and the Peach Preserves in your basket were anchors for something other than the brilliant golden stars in the void. "No, not yet." 

_~~The child laughs. One parent, but she laughs with the cunning and kindness of something else. Somewhere, a window opens.~~ _

"The Hanged Man. Upright." 

The fortune-teller is mortal again. Her eyes are no longer golden coals in the void, but her smile is tired, and lonely. "You're surrendering. Letting go. Of what, I don't know. But it's all yours. I opened a window, Luvvy. take it." 

You don't know what to say. The buzzing in your head has cleared. Alastor's radio no longer crackled with malicious lightning. Outside, you can hear people laughing and cheering. Your shoulders sag. 

"This isn't over yet, isn't it." You state. 

"An intermission, a lull." the woman says. "You'll have to fight."

You pause. "I guess I will."

She looks defeated. "Be careful. Cunning and knowledge will serve you well." 

 

===

The rest of the day passes in a dreamy haze. Alastor is silent, save for the occasional crackles of his radio. You're walking home, eating your peaches when you hear the rustle of cloth. Looking around, you see people dressed in...well, clothes, but oddly... strangely out of place. Like--

 _Oh god_ _._

They're smiling, wide and ear to ear, standing and acting side by side. Dressed in bright reds and eerie whites. The houses are dark and closed, the place silent. Your street is just two posts away, but your legs feel like lead and your gut is churning in something terrible. You could be wrong, but. But.  _but._

_And something catches your eye, your blood turns to ice and, and, and **fuck I have to escape.**_

"You know what, the rennaissance fair is fun-er right now. I'm going back." you pivot around, and speed up to a trot, and once you're out of eyeshot, you're sprinting. Not a few minutes later, you hear rhythmic clapping and the clack of heels behind you. You dare not look back. You throw your basket and the jar of peaches, which crashes to the ground in a loud clink. Voices exclaim in surprise, but as you run the steps follow. You clutch Alastor's Radio close as you see a truck, about to leave. You recognize the young man wearing headphones as one of the people owning local apple orchards. 

You pat your coat pockets, and yes, wallet is present. Good.

With adrenaline through your veins, you throw the radio up on the cargo, earning an annoyed " _Hey!_ " fromAlastor. You exclaim an apology and scramble up yes, one leg--

a hand grabs your ankle and you bite your lip trying not to scream. You look down. It's a pretty girl your age with silky brown hair and a too-wide smile, her eyes too black, too much like marbles. Her dress is too white, like bone. And worst of all, her eyes are starry. 

"Oh, you're the Bride." she breathes, and she looks like she just inhaled whatever thing causes such a disturbingly intoxicated look. "It is an hono--"

You exclaim a sorry as you kick her in the chin, and just before the others arrive, all with expectant grins and disturbingly sharp kitchen implements. And some chainsaws, from the look of it. The girl topples over and the  people scramble to get over the cargo, but much to your relief, the truck leaves, and they are left, eyes murderous and angry, though their smiles twitch, ever-present. 

The girl waves. You give them the finger as the truck zooms forward out of the town, and into the highways and forests. The sun is setting, coloring the clouds and the skies a vibrant orange. Night will settle soon. 

 _"Well, that was eventful."_ Alastor purrs, and laughs when you jump.  _"Acquaintances?"_

"No." you pause. "Well, yes, but not them."

_"Really?"_

You purse your lips.  "It's a long story." 

You can feel eyebrows rising.  _"Shoot, darling."_

You fidget. "My parents were in a cult. Ringleaders. One of them."

And you pause. Take a deep breath. You slowly take Alastor's radio, and dust it off, checking for scratches. You're stalling, and you know that. Alastor knows that. From the driver's seat, _Country Road_ blares from the radio player. You wait, and curl around the wooden contraption, hugging the radio close. The night fell, and stars come out. 

It stings. But you say what you are anyway. Nothing will change that you were made to be one. You miss your kind mama, your nice papa, before everybody was not what they were to be. You hated your name, your face, your blood, everything. Maybe it was better that you had died, you think at times. That way, you wouldn't miss anybody.

Alastor's radio crackles. You rest your chin above it, looking at the road blurring by. 

"Sacrifice." you mutter. 

_"Pardon?"_

"I was a sacrifice." Your eyes water. "I was made to be cattle. Nothing more, nothing less."

" _Fascinating."_ Alastor replies, but his voice is dry and saying that this was not the first time he heard of such circumstances. " _And the tea, sweetheart?"_

You bark out a laugh, and you rub away your tears. You inhale. The night air is cool, and soothes something festering and bitter in you. You don't know if it's the harsh wind or not, but something clawed and unseen is drawing patterns on your scalp, soothing you. 

You exhale. "It goes like this..." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good News: Got into Law School (LLB), Graduated from AB English (With a Lot of Drama ngl), and managed to salvage this fic's plot from my Plans NB after messing it
> 
> Bad news for this: less updates, and probably me passing out from anemia again, and my doctor asking me 'how are u alive,,, ur rbc count is so low,,,' and I just throw finger-guns @ her, I'm so sorry Dr. Suarez
> 
> EDIT: (8/26/19) MY! CRIMINAL! LAW! EXAMS! ARE! OVER! HAVE THIS, no beta we die like HEROES
> 
> NYWAYS, tysm for supporting this insomnia-driven fic.


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